


I can see the stars (do you see them too?)

by SmilinStar



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2554208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her eyes are open, and she's still staring up. At what, he has no idea, and he wonders what it is she's seeing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can see the stars (do you see them too?)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is obviously from Ed Sheeran's gorgeous All Of The Stars. Little bit of angst, little bit of fluff, enjoy (hopefully).

\-----

 

“She's outside.”

 

He's barely crossed the threshold of their front door and Damon is already standing there, drink in hand, pre-empting the answer to a question that has occupied him for the past two hours.

 

He's not sure when he'd become so easy to read, or if Damon's gotten better at it, or if he always could read him so easily and he'd just rejected the idea on principle alone. Because, well, he's anything but predictable, or so he'd like to believe.

 

Damon would disagree of course.

 

But a century and a half together means there's no one here that knows him better. And he knows him just as well. He's well versed enough in the subject of his older brother to know that Damon isn't faring much better than any of them really, but that is for another conversation for another time. For now, someone else takes priority and he knows that.

 

“Thanks man,” he says patting him on the shoulder as he walks past.

 

Damon simply shrugs a dismissive shoulder, disappearing into the living room.

 

He watches him go, and reminds himself, _another conversation for another time._

 

He heads out the back door, and he doesn't have to stray too far before he spots her.

 

Bright blonde hair splayed out on the grass, a beacon under the moonlight.

 

He treads lightly, almost utterly silent as he approaches. She hears him, he knows, yet she doesn't move, doesn't so much as twitch, doesn't acknowledge him at all.

 

She's lying there on the grass, arms folded across her chest, staring, unblinking, up at the night sky.

 

“There you are. I've been looking for you,” he says softly.

 

Still, she says nothing.

 

He purses his lips and sighs, lowering himself to the ground first onto his backside, before falling back and shuffling down so his head lies on the ground level with hers. He mimics her position, arms folded across the chest of his grey t-shirt, legs outstretched. His elbow is almost touching hers, but not quite, and his eyes stay glued to the great vastness of space.

 

“She's going to be okay, you know?”

 

Again, silence.

 

“Liz is one of the strongest people I know, she's a fighter.”

 

The silence is broken by a sniff and a heavy, steadying breath, in and out.

 

“I know,” she says finally.

 

“You're a lot alike in that way.”

 

She doesn't say anything else, not for a few minutes, not until she says on a broken whisper, “She's my mom.”

 

And he can't help it, he has to turn his head and look at her.

 

It's heartbreaking in it's honesty, in its simplicity, because those three words say it all, and there's nothing more to add except for the tears that slip out from the corners of her eyes and slide down her cheeks, dripping on to the grass.

 

Her eyes are open, and she's still staring up. At what, he has no idea, and he wonders what it is she's seeing.

 

He wants to reach out and hold her, but he's not sure such an overture is welcome.

 

Their fractured friendship is still healing. The wounds are still a little ragged and raw, still painful but not always, enough to forget they're there sometimes, but any sudden movements and the sting is like a slap across the face.

 

And so he ignores the urge, and turns his face back up to the sky and the bright lights that have been a constant companion for the past hundred and fifty years or so.

 

“Huh,” he breathes out a few silent moments later, a wisp puffing out from his lips and disappearing into the cold night sky.

 

“What?” she asks.

 

“You know, if you squint, I swear you can see a unicorn -”

 

“What?”

 

“With fangs.”

 

“What?!” she says again, and there's laughter in her voice behind the tears, and he feels it like a warm rush through him, almost as if his heart really were beating, pumping blood through every long dead fibre of his body.

 

“It's you.”

 

“Shut up!” she laughs, and she reaches out and slaps him on the chest with the back of her hand.

 

“I'm completely serious, look,” he says, and he's reaching for her hand before he even realises and is guiding her, drawing out senseless shapes amongst the stars. “See, and then if you follow it up, there's it's horn.”

 

She shakes her head, and pulls on his hand, drawing out a completely different map, “That's not a horn, it's the roof of a house.”

 

“No, I'm pretty sure -”

 

“It's a house,” she says again, and this time she goes through the motion again, slowly, but he's not gazing at the stars.

 

Her cheeks are still wet from the tears, her nose turning pink in the cold but the corners of her mouth are tilted upwards into the smallest of smiles and it's all he needs.

 

“See?” she asks.

 

“Yep,” he nods, even though he doesn't.

 

“It's Cepheus.”

 

He raises his brow at that, and she senses his surprise, turning to face him, “The King of Ethiopia.”

 

“How do you -” he starts, but doesn't finish, trailing off as her eyes meet his.

 

She doesn't answer him, just gives him an enigmatic smile and says, “I'm just full of surprises.”

 

He shakes his head, failing to hide his awe as he smiles, “Yes, you are.”

 

She turns back to the stars and after a moment he does too.

 

They fall into a comfortable silence, her hand still in his.

 

It's not until the clouds drift in and hide the King from their unwavering gaze, does he speak again.  “Caroline,” he says, soft but sure, squeezing her hand as he does, “she's going to be okay, trust me.”

 

He doesn't realise he's holding his breath.

 

He only lets it go when she curls her fingers around his and squeezes back.

 

He thinks he hears the whisper of “I do” in the wind, carried away in the clouds, and dancing amongst the stars.

 

And just like that, the pressure in his chest eases.

 

And he breathes a little easier.

 

In and out, in time with her.

 

 

**End.**

 

 

 

 


End file.
